


Mind and Matter

by acina_m



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Illusions, Insanity, One Shot, Pain, Suffering, idk what i am doing, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acina_m/pseuds/acina_m
Summary: “You know I won’t go away,” he drawls, and his words are impossibly closer, inside of her ear, breathing down her throat. She feels those fingers squeezing her forearm, the other fingers playing with her neck and jaw. “I already have you. I have always had you. Mind and body. I will never stop, you know it, and you can’t do anything about it. I always have you, so just savour it.”





	Mind and Matter

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever one shot, and fic on this site. I only proof read this myself, so I hope you guys are merciful. Hope you guys like it, too. XD

**Mind and Matter (Tomione One-shot)**

**...0O0O0O0O0O0...**

He is there, whispering again into the shell of her ear, breaking through her reverie like a heated spear into soft, breakable flesh. It tears her apart from the inside as she listens further to his enticing words; recoils as if burned by the metaphorical spears— _and tries desperately, and fails miserably_ —as she falls into the embrace of her own arms in a mock attempt to defend herself. But it proves useless.

_Every time._

Her arms are not enough to hold back her reactions. Her mutterings are not enough to calm her jittery flesh or her fears from clawing up within her body. Her hair isn’t enough of a curtain to hide her fearful eyes from his. Her knowledge isn’t enough to rationalise the myriad of emotions and conflicts raging through her all at once. Her magic isn’t enough to tear through the fabric that choked her mind and incapacitated her thoughts.

Desperately, she pulls the covers over her head, and the phantom weight of _it_ pressed on her chest, over her heart, as if reaching out to caress the beating muscle underneath her breast, and it _burns_ her, and she shudders, and she cries, but no sound comes out. No pain blinds her senses. No body reassures her she is fine.

But her mind is awake, and it feels the assault, the _intrusion_ , yet she makes no sound, but knows her face is contorting, her chest is heaving, her lip is bleeding from being bitten too hard, and knows that her mattress probably has ten tears in it from where her fingers strangled it. She heaves, breathes, gasps, cries—but no sound. _Only silence_.

They shall not hear her— _will never_.

This was her own to bear.

She did not want to think— _could not_ think about what other worries she might add to them.

“ _Just let it go_ ,” he is saying into her ear. “ _Crash and burn. Let the fire consume you_ —yield. _It is not a sin. Let me catch you, Hermione._ ”

Her name on his tongue was _already_ a sin, and the weight of him on her chest burns her, and she could not— _does not_ want to touch him. Her fingers clench the mattress tighter. She _refuses_ to touch him, and doesn’t let her mind yield either. But it was close; _he_ was close, and _she_ was close to losing, and she fought long and hard. _Always did—always have._

So she tells him so. That it _was_ a sin. _He_ was a sin.

“No, _you_ are a sin. You’ve hurt _me_ — and _many others_. But I won’t let you anymore,” she declares, eyes blazing, teeth clenching, mind reeling, and she is still holding the mattress. _She is still holding herself down._ “I won’t fall—not to _you_. Go away—go away! _Go away!_ ” She sobs, and she breaks, and her shackles fall down to the ground in a pitiful heap, and he does _not_ go away. He does not move. His presence lingers like a shadow at the forefront of her mind when she closes her eyes, and she _hates_ him, and he does not let her go. His hold on her mind was like an iron grip, and his weight still presses on her chest; insistent and searing, like a farewell kiss at the end of a night.

But she does not want him, nor _anything_ from him.

She could feel the darkness around him, and the grin he gives her— _predatory and possessive._ Her body begins shaking, and she _feels_ the words coming out of his mouth. Knows them by heart because of the insistent and harsh mouth that always sewed those words upon her— _his teeth a pair of needles and his words the thread upon her skin._ She _feels_ his sharp words before he actually says them, and she _knows_ them— _always have_ , and she _also_ knows he loves torturing her so; _loves_ reminding her of the weight she has to bear. Of the heaviness of her burden, _and she knew him_. She knew him so much better than the others, and he _wouldn’t_ stop reminding her.

“ _You know I won’t go away_ ,” he drawls, and his words are impossibly closer, inside of her ear, breathing down her throat. She feels those fingers squeezing her forearm, the other fingers playing with her neck and jaw. “ _I already have you. I have always had you. Mind and body. I will never stop, you know it, and you can’t do anything about it. I always have you, so just savour it._ ”

And his words are true, yet they are not. Even as the weight still insistently presses on her chest, she knows the weight is not there. It is in her mind, speaking to her relentlessly, even as she is shaking in her bed, begging it to stop and release her. She begs him to stop haunting her, and she knows he has stopped, but in her mind, he hasn’t. His touches linger, and his words fade into a seamless chain that links each period to another capital, and it is infinite as it thrums inside of her body.

She lets go of the torn mattress and purchases her claws into the bare flesh of her forearms to draw blood, yet in her mind, it is his hands. _Cruel. Harsh._ She thinks that the locket of Salazer Slytherin is burning on her chest, but it was not. It was not even there. _It never was._

So, she cries, and breaks down, and begs all of these illusions to stop, and still continues to do so, even when she knows they will never cease. She rocks herself in her bed, and weeps, yet she does not make a sound.

Because Hermione Granger was a war hero. _A heroine_.

She was a warrior who had conquered the war that had dominated her world. But even when all warriors became victorious in war, warriors _never_ won anything. Rather, they lost their minds and humanity, and the blood of their enemies haunt them, and they lose what they all have to the madness that eats at them.

Hermione’s assailant may now be non-existent, but it does not erase the fact that he _had_ been there to ruin her, and had successfully made her spiral into her silent torment, and her impending insanity.

But even as she is insane, Hermione still fights him off. She still fights the world, because she is _still_ a warrior—and because the war is still raging within her, and though it may now be over, she never acknowledges he has already won the war in her mind, and not her.

_It had never been her._

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts...?


End file.
